Taking My Own Advice
A few blog posts ago I wrote about taking your act on the road, going to other cities, having new comedy experiences (see Comedy Doesn’t Grow in Comfort Zones). I have been trying to take my own advice and do exactly that. So yesterday I headed to Mandeville, Louisiana, about an hour outside of New Orleans. Mandeville is across Lake Ponchartrain and to get there you have to drive the largest bridge in the US (26 miles). Guess who is on the other side of that bridge? Folks who definitely didn’t vote the same way I did and don’ t think the same way I do. Guess I’ll try and tell them some jokes.
I’ve been trying to take my own advice, so yesterday I headed to Mandeville, Louisiana, about an hour outside New Orleans.
To get there, you drive across the longest bridge in the U.S.—26 miles over Lake Pontchartrain. On the other side? People who definitely didn’t vote like I did and probably don’t think like I do. But I figured I’d try and tell them some jokes.
The show started with the host doing his set. A few minutes in, he said the word fuck. It happens. It's comedy. But a man in the audience yelled out that it was inappropriate. My stomach dropped—I was up next, and if that guy couldn’t handle one swear word, he was definitely not going to love my set.
The man told the host to grow up, then walked out. I felt some relief, but the room was tense. You could feel it. The host apologized, saying, “If I offended anyone, I’m sorry.” A woman shouted back, “It’s a comedy show!”—which helped cut the tension a bit.
The host tried to continue, but the crowd kept interrupting. Eventually, he gave up and said, “You don’t want to hear from me, so let’s bring up the next comic—Amanda G.” And just like that, I was on.
One comic later told me, “You really powered through.” And I did. I couldn’t find a rhythm, but I kept going. I was paid to do 20 minutes, and I follow through on my commitments.
I tried to connect. I asked, “Who here has a mom?”—thinking that was a universal question. Only one or two people clapped. Maybe they were on edge, unsure of where I was going. I launched into the joke anyway: “I have a mom. We watched Wicked together and afterward I asked what she thought. She said, ‘Too much music.’ Yes, too much music in the musical Wicked.”
A woman shouted, “I agree.” Cool. Even the easy ones were falling flat.
Still, I smiled. I kept going. I told jokes I love to tell. And by the end, I got applause. Actual applause. When I walked to the back, a man came up to me and said, “Don’t listen to them. I thought you were very funny.” I thanked him—it genuinely made my night.
It wasn’t the easiest set. It wasn’t the best crowd. But it was real. And sometimes, the most valuable thing you get from going on the road isn’t a perfect set—it’s the reminder that you can show up, hold your ground, and stay true to your voice, even when it’s a little quiet in the room.
